Wrong Number
by Snapegirlkmf
Summary: A wrong number turns Gold's Pawnshop into a phone sex fantasy hotline . . . how will Storybrooke's pawnbroker handle becoming a call girl's hottest dream lover? Rated M for language and some suggestive wicked innuendos!


**Wrong Number**

**Or**

**Tale of a Fateful Phone Call**

**A Once fanfic**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, dearies, just playing!**

_Gold's pawnshop_

_Storybrooke:_

Mr. Gold was just contemplating closing up for lunch in another hour, as business at the shop had been slow today. People were probably staying indoors due to the sudden cold snap, as winters in Maine were often chilly and this one was proving unusually cold. He also contemplated calling Belle to see if she wanted to have lunch at Granny's, maybe get that hamburger she'd been talking about trying. But ever since that debacle with her father kidnapping her and trying to make her lose her memories of Rumple by being thrown across the town line, Gold had been hesitant to make any kind of move in her direction. He didn't want her to feel crowded or like he was forcing her to be with him, he wanted her to want him . . . and so she would have to be the one to call him and make a date for hamburgers.

He checked the antique clock on the wall, noting it was just eleven thirty. At twelve thirty he would close and go to the diner to grab a bite to eat. Hopefully Belle would be there, or would call before then.

He carefully dusted the case with the ruby slippers inside and the hanging unicorn mobile. He had just tossed the feather duster behind the counter and was reaching for the can of Pledge to do the antique Chippendale apothecary cabinet in the corner when the phone rang.

His ears pricked up and he hurried into the back room and picked up the phone. "Hello, Mr. Gold speaking. How can I help you?"

A woman's voice purred on the other end, "Ooh baby, I think I can help you . . . how do you like to do it?"

"Do it? I think there's been a mistake," Gold began, his eyebrows rising into his hair.

"A mistake? Oh no, golden boy, I don't think so. You have a sexy voice, you know that? You make me want to touch you all over—"

"I _what? _I believe you've got the wrong number. Sorry," Gold said quickly, a faint blush creeping up his face. Then he hung up the phone.

He shook his head and went to get a new dustrag and sprayed it with Pledge. He began to lovingly polish the Chippendale, admiring the clean lines and the sweet finish on it. He thought again of Belle and wished she'd call him soon . . .

The phone rang.

He dropped the polish and the rag and hurried back to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Hiya, gorgeous! Oh, but me and you are gonna have a hot time tonight!" giggled another woman's voice.

"Ma'am, whom do you think you're speaking to? This is a pawnshop—"

"Ooh, a pawnshop! Babydoll, I've got lots of things you can pawn . . . starting with my one hundred percent virgin _tetas_ . . . My last boyfriend said he'd pay a thousand dollars for one of them! How much are _you_ willing to pay, hot stuff?"

"Nothing! You've got the wrong number . . ." Gold sputtered, starting to go red.

"Aww, sweetie, you don't have to be ashamed . . . is this your first time doing it over the phone?"

"No . . . I mean yes . . . I mean . . . Good bye!"

Click!

He stared at the phone as if it were a viper. What the hell was going on?

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Gold's Pawnshop. How may I be of service?"

"Lots of ways, honey buns!" cooed a sultry voice with a distinct Southern accent. "I like it on the floor . . . in your car . . . anywhere and everywhere . . . . let's get it on . . . ding dong, sugah!"

"Listen, this is my _business_, not a bar or . . . or a— " Gold was floundering, trying to recall what the hell they called places you met the opposite sex at. "—a cat house, now please stop calling here, I'm a reputable businessman—"

"Ooh, I _love_ the straitlaced types . . . do y'all wear a tie . . . 'cause I know ways I can tie you right up, sugah . . . like in 50 Shades . . .and do it all night . . . lovin', touchin', squeezin', oh yeah, baby . . ." She began to groan in to the phone. "Sooo sexy . . . hot fuckin' damn . . . you make me wanna rub up against you like a cat . . ."

Gold nearly swallowed his tongue at the noises she was making. "Madam, go and take a cold shower!"

"Only if you come with me, sweetheart! I like it wet and . . ."

She described something that was probably anatomically impossible involving her tongue and his . . . he went red and cried, "Enough! You call here again and I'm calling the cops!"

"Ooh, you like to play good cop, bad cop, honey? Fine, you arrest me and we can play prisoner with my silver manacles . . . whoo hoo . . .!"

"Good day!" he snapped and hung up the phone.

Really, was this what passed for entertainment these days? And what part of _you've got the wrong number _did she not understand? _Next time, I'm not answering the phone. I'm just going to let the machine pick it up. Yes, that's what I'm going to do._ He breathed a sigh of relief.

Until he recalled he hadn't installed the new answering machine yet.

Swearing softly, he went to find the box where he'd put it . . . somewhere in the basement . . .

He was just checking some boxes when the phone shrilled again.

He rapidly raced up the stairs, then stood there at his desk, watching it ring.

Should he answer it? Or should he ignore it?

_I don't want to answer the phone, I really don't . . .that crazy sex maniac has got me nuts . . .But what if it's a customer, a dealer . . . someone important? You coward! Just answer the damn phone! Oh, what if it's Belle? And she's calling to go out for hamburgers . . .? I have to answer it . . . I __**have**__ to . . ._

He picked up the phone.

"Mr. Gold here. . . . _Excuse_ me! Miss, I assure you I am _not_ into that. . .I'm a businessman, this is my _**SHOP**_, no, it's not a pick up line, dear God! You want to do _what _with my tie . . .? You leave my tongue out of this! You keep your whips and chains and tie _yourself_ up, madam!"

There came the sound of smacking and kissing and moaning. Then more suggestive ideas about what to do with his tie and _whipped cream, lace, and leather straps!_

"That's it! I'm calling the cops!" he shouted, thoroughly frustrated, frazzled, and embarrassed beyond belief.

"Go ahead, loverboy! Call 'em . . . and then I can invite 'em in for a good time . . . we can have a threesome . . . do you go both ways?"

"Both w-_no_! For the last damn time _ . . ._ I sell antiques . . . no, I will not shake my booty . . . sexually _frustrated . . . _woman, you've no idea how frustrated I am . . . because you're not _listening_ . . . this is Gold's _pawnshop_, not Gold's Sex Hotline . . .!" he shouted.

"Gee, lover boy, you're sure getting hot under the collar . . . why don't you unbutton it . . . and let me lick you all over . . . mmm . . . so hot and tasty . . .. !"

Gold was sure his face was redder than the ruby slippers by now. "Do ye not understand English, dearie . . . are ye deaf or just dense as a post . . .?"

"Hmm . . . I detect a wee bit of a Scottish accent . . . are you wearing a kilt, laddie? Cause I'd be happy to toss it up and see just how ye measure your bonnie Prince Charlie . . . is it true you wear nothin' under them, lucky laddie . . .?" Giggling and panting followed, along with some smooching, and lots more suggestions.

He hung up for the fourth . . . or was it fifth time?

His head was spinning . . . and he started to dial the sheriff's office . . . only to forget the number halfway through and have to look it up. Finally, he found it in his contact list and dialed.

The phone rang and rang . . . _Come on, Swan, pick up! _He urged silently.

"Dammit! What if there was an emergency?" he snarled. "Hell, what am I saying? This _is_ an emergency . . . I'm being harassed by some sex-starved woman that wants to play Scottish raider and romp through the heather then tie her to the bed and switch her with some hazel rod and roll her up in my kilt . . . I don't even _own_ a kilt, for Godsake, nor am I related to anybody named Charlie . . .!" The phone continued ringing. "Swan, I pay your damn salary!" he snarled to no avail. . and rang . . . and rang . . .

_Beep!_ "You have reached the Storybrooke police station . . . no one is available to take your call at the moment . . . if this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1 . . .otherwise leave your name, number, and reason for calling after the beep . . ." _Beep!_

"Sheriff Swan, this is Mr. Gold. Someone got a wrong number at my shop . . . and they think-"

_Beep! _"Sorry, this mailbox is full. Please try again later!"

"What? This mailbox is full my ass!" He hung up.

Three minutes later the phone rang again.

Maybe it was Emma . . . returning his call.

Gritting his teeth, he picked up the receiver. "Hello, Emma?"

"Hey, homeboy! I want your sexy white ass, baby! Ooh wee . . .ya know, once you go black you never go back . . . so let's go in the back and get jiggy with it . . .!"

Click!

_Bring! Bring!_

"Whoever you are, this is a private number- "

"We can be as private as you like . . ." panted a voice over the phone. "My name is Kali Rani and I can show you the way to nirvana . . . You put your finger here and push my love button . . ."

Click!

The phone rang again.

"No, I am _not_ available, and I'm _not_ going to push any of your buttons-"

There came the sound of kissing and then a girl's voice squealed, "Theese is ze language of _love_ . . ._ ooh lala . . .!" _followed by something in French he was sure he didn't want a translation to.

He really needed to invest in caller ID, he thought, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Was it hot in here or was it just his blood pressure soaring because of the scandalous naughty images that . . . _floozy_ and her friends had implanted in his brain? _Don't even go there, Gold! _

_I need some fresh air. A change of scenery. I need to change my damn number . . ._

The phone rang.

He nearly screamed. "Go . . . away . . .! Just . . . go . . . _away_!"

The phone rang over and over.

_It could be Emma. Pick it up. _"Hello, Gold's Pawnshop . . ."

"Dahlink . . . this is Lola . . . Luscious Lola . . . so glad t'know ya . . . time to get naughty . . . are ya hot an' horny . . .? Baby, you turn me on!"

He slammed the phone down. _I turn her on? Hell, how do you turn her **off?**_

Then he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven forty-five and he'd already gotten more phone calls in one hour than he usually did all day! Just how the hell many single desperate women _were_ there in Maine anyway . . .? D_o you really want to know . . . no, you don't . . ._

The hands on the clock moved infinitesimally.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

_Don't ring. Don't ring. Silence is golden._

Maybe this desperate damsel had finally taken the hint and she and her friends were trying some other number . . . he prayed that was the case . . .

He went to grab his keys from the back room and pull on his overcoat.

_Bring! Bring! Bring!_

He was going to ignore it this time.

_Just keep walking, Gold. One foot in front of the other._

He took a step out of the room.

The phone's shrill screech mocked him.

He felt like running out of the shop. Or biting his nails.

_Rumple, you coward. Are you going to let some . . . desperate draggle-tail hard-up bitch get the better of you? Like hell! Maybe if I play along, she'll give up and call an escort service!_

He reached out and grabbed the phone, nearly yanking it from the wall, and spoke into it before the naughty girl on the other end could get a word in edgewise.

"Hello, dearie! Yer laddie is all ready and waiting for ye, my bonnie lassie!" he crooned. "I'm no' wearin'a kilt, tho', just skin tight leather pants that squeeze my bonnie Prince Charlie an' leave nothin' t' yer wicked imagination. My purple shirt is undone an' ye can see ma bare chest, an' ma heart is goin' pitter-patter waitin' for ye t'come and run your hot little fingers down me an' scratch me all over, dearie, before I pin you down on my desk and make you scream my name!"

There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone.

Then a familiar voice cried, "Umm . . . _Rumple_? I'll be right over!"

Click!

The next sound heard in the shop was a loud yell of triumph . . . followed by a dial tone.


End file.
